


A Dog's Life

by Snafu1000



Series: 'Moments In Time' Universe [2]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-25
Updated: 2012-09-28
Packaged: 2017-11-12 20:51:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/495516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snafu1000/pseuds/Snafu1000
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A 'Moments In Time' companion piece.  Talia Cousland and her companions as seen through the eyes of her faithful mabari, Brego.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. His Talia

_Dedicated to all the dogs I have had since childhood._

* * *

_"The one absolutely unselfish friend that man can have in this selfish world, the one that never deserts him, the one that never proves ungrateful or treacherous, is his dog. . . .He will kiss the hand that has no food to offer; he will lick the wounds and sores that come in encounter with the roughness of the world. . . .When all other friends desert, he remains." - George G Vest_

* * *

His earliest memories are vague but persistent: the scent of his mother and siblings, the taste of her milk, the steady rhythm of her heartbeat, the warmth of them all surrounding him. These will return to him in dreams throughout his life.

Sight and sound play very little part in those earliest memories. He can hear the voices of the masters far above the nest box where he and his siblings roll about, already heeding the inborn instinct to establish their place in the pack with tiny growls and toothless battles, but their words make little sense to him.

"Twelve is an impressive litter, indeed, Lyndon, and to have them all survive even more so. Brinda is a good mother. How long until they can leave her?"

"Another two or three weeks, at least, Bryce. Thinking of getting one for Fergus?"

"Fergus is getting married; I don't think he'll have time to deal with a mabari, but I thought it might make Talia feel a bit better about having to share her brother."

He has already established his dominance among his siblings when he is plucked from their midst and held aloft by strong hands, squirming and whining anxiously, hearing the warning growl of his mother.

"It's all right, lass. One less on the teats, and he's going to a good home."

He never sees his mother again, but he never forgets her scent. A few hours later, he is deposited into a smaller set of hands, and his nostrils fill with the scent that will define the rest of his life.

"He's beautiful, Papa! What's his name?"

"It's up to you to name him, Pup. It's also your responsibility to see that he's properly trained; a mabari is no small responsibility. Ian has trained them before. He'll show you what to do, but you will be the only one the mabari truly obeys, so you must learn along with him."

"I will, Papa, I promise! Thank you!"

He whines a bit that first night, missing the familiar sound and smell of his siblings, but he finds himself curled up in a soft bed with the girl; he can feel her heartbeat and her warmth and quickly associates these with her smell.

By the end of their second day together, the memories of his mother and littermates have receded, and she has become his world.

Brego. That is the sound she makes when she calls to him, and he soon understands that this is his name, just as her name is Talia.

Understanding his place in this new pack is a slower process. He is subordinate to his Talia, of course, but after that, it becomes much more complicated. His Talia's father, mother and sibling are clearly above her in the pack, and therefore above him, as well. The sibling's mate is less clear, but she has a pleasing voice and gentle hands that frequently bring treats, so he eventually places her alongside the sibling in his esteem.

The rest of the many humans and elves that occupy his new world are less clear. They seem subservient to his Talia, but when he tries to assert his own dominance over them, he receives the worst scolding of his young life and retreats to their room to sulk in shame beneath the bed.

"He can't be allowed such displays, Talia. For all that he's a puppy, he still weighs nearly five stone, and he'll be closer to a dozen before he's fully grown. You must be able to control him."

"I will, Mother." His Talia's voice, thick with tears but determined, her scent laden with fear and remorse, making him whine in misery at having been the cause of it. "It won't happen again."

And it does not. He learns that these people, while they are beneath his Talia, are as off limits to him as the chickens that scratch the dirt in the surrounding farmsteads, the cats that haunt the stables and the other, lesser dogs of the keep. Once he understands this, he treats them with an aloof disdain, a king among his lessers, save a warning growl to the smaller ones, if they are too persistent. A warning is all that is ever needed.

Once he learns control, more is asked of him.

"A mabari is smarter than a regular hound by a long shot, Lady Talia. You can train him to respond to voice commands or gestures. Just a twitch from your hand will be enough to move him, but make good and sure that it's what you want him to do, because he'll run through fire or tear a man's head from his shoulders if you ask him to." The man stands before them in a heavy leather suit that covers him from feet to throat, a metal helmet over his head. Brego has spent the morning learning to attack on her command, biting down on the protected arms and legs, holding tight and shaking his head, growling with the fun of this new game, the stump of his tail wagging furiously.

"Brego?" His Talia's fingers curl into his fur, her voice disbelieving. "He wouldn't really hurt anyone!"

"No?" In a second, the man has grabbed her, twisting her arm up and behind her, one hand at her throat. The scent of her sudden shock and fear washes over him, triggering an instinctive surge of rage. His snarl is anything but playful as he leaves the ground, knocking the man away from his Talia. His jaws close around a padded arm in earnest, and there is a muffled crack, then a cry of pain.

"Brego, out!" Her voice cuts through the rage, and he immediately releases his hold and backs out, his eyes never leaving his target.

"Bad dog!" Her face is pale as she rounds on him and he crouches in shame as others come running.

"No, Lady Talia!" The man pulls off his helmet and cradles his arm carefully, his skin ashen and beaded with sweat. "He did what he should have done: defended you." He gives a strained chuckle. "He's a strong one, he is. Your daughter is well protected." This last is directed to his Talia's father and mother, who stand at the fore of the gathering crowd.

"But Ian, your arm!" The mother looks at him with a mixture of fear and anger, and he droops even lower.

The man he bit shakes his head. "I provoked him, Your Grace, and he did exactly as he ought." Moving to a bench, he pulls a thick piece of meat from a sack. "Anyone who tries to hurt your daughter will have to go through him. You picked a good bloodline, Teyrn. Here." The man passes the meat to his Talia, and Brego is torn between continuing to watch him as he steps away and looking longingly at the treat. "Give him that and praise him."

"Good boy." She crouches beside him, offering the meat, which he accepts carefully, dropping it to the ground and tearing at it as she wraps her arms around him. "Good dog, Brego. You did the right thing. I'm sorry I yelled at you."

"Good boy." The father's deeper voice in his ears, a strong hand scratching his head, and he whines with pleasure at the praise and attention, savoring it even more than the meat. "Good Brego!"

"Bryce!"

"That's part of what I got him for, Eleanor."

"The perfect companion for a young lady. Between that and her sword, we'll have a time indeed finding a husband for her."

"We've got a few more years before we need to worry about that, and in the meantime, I want her protected."

"We'll see." The mother seems no less displeased. "You'll be singing a different tune when you have to double her dowry to get a man to take the dog along with her. Now, help Ian out of that ridiculous contraption and let's get him to the healer!"

Later that night, he is draped across the foot of their bed when the door to their room opens. He lifts his head, his eyes on the door, even though his nose has already identified the visitor.

"Good dog," the mother whispers, scratching his ear as she offers him a thick slice of cheese. "Just don't tell Bryce I said so." He chuffs softly, his tail bobbing once as he accepts the cheese, and when she leaves, he stretches back out with a contented sigh, listening to his Talia's steady breathing in the darkness.

Some weeks later, he is introduced to the offspring of the brother and his mate: a tiny, squalling thing that he greets with a polite sniff before backing away with an anxious whine. The tiny thing grows quickly into a child, and he does not need to be told that he must endure this child's attention without growling, though he is permitted to get up and walk away if he becomes too bothersome.

The years pass, and he is content within his pack. The boy grows large enough to play properly, and becomes much more interesting, and he continues to learn to fight alongside his Talia, taking his cues from her voice, her gestures, her scent, until he can respond almost without thought. There are quiet times, as well, drowsing before a roaring fireplace in the winter or lazing in the summer sun with her head pillowed on his back and her voice in his ears.

The night it all changes begins unremarkably, but he knows as soon as he awakens that something is badly amiss, the smells and sounds screaming a warning to him, one that he tries to pass on to his Talia. This night he tastes blood in earnest, killing for the first time in defense of his Talia and their pack, instinct flowing seamlessly into place alongside his training. She fights alongside him, the scent of her fear pushing him to even greater ferocity. He smells her grief, too, when she and her mother find the corpses of her sibling's mate and child, and he grieves in his own way as the scent of their blood fills his nose, but his fury is one with hers.

They fight, their fear banished, and none can stand before them until they come to the larder that she had caught him in the previous day. The bodies of the rats are gone, but her father's blood is thick in the air, his body broken on the floor, and their grief flares anew. He can feel her eagerness for battle, is ready to fight and die at her side, but the tainted one comes, the odd mix of corruption and calmness in his scent baffling Brego. That the father and mother hold him in high esteem is plain from the way they speak to him, but when they speak of things that he does not understand, his Talia becomes angry.

He whines as he stares between them, knowing that she – and he – must obey the leaders of their pack, uneasy at the thought that she might defy them. At last, her shoulders slump in defeat; she hugs them and goes to the tainted one.

"Come on, Brego."

He looks at her in confusion, something between a whine and a growl wavering in his throat. She does not _want_ to go; her scent screams it, and he hesitates, unsure if he should attack the tainted one or obey his Talia.

"Go, boy," the father urges him weakly, reaching out a bloody hand to pat him, and now Brego can smell the death on him, nibbling at the edges of his scent as the rats nibbled at the sacks in the larder. "Go with them. You must protect her now."

_Protect her_. This is something that he does understand, and with a last whine he goes to her, following her as she follows the tainted one through a dark tunnel that smells strongly of rat. When they emerge into the night, he cannot see anything beyond a glow high above them, but he can still smell the blood and burning in the air. He does not understand what has happened, why they are leaving their pack, but he smells and sees her fear and her grief, and an answering grief wells up in him. Throwing back his head, he gives voice to a single, mournful howl before turning to follow his Talia.


	2. The Tainted One

_Dogs have given us their absolute all. We are the center of their universe. We are the focus of their love and faith and trust. They serve us in return for scraps. It is without a doubt the best deal man has ever made. ~Roger Caras_

* * *

"She's going to be all right...isn't she?"

Brego raises his head at the sound of the male's voice, turning his head from the hut where his Talia lay to regard him. He wants to be inside with her, where he belongs, but the two females whose home this was have forbidden it, and while he would have likely defied the younger one, the elder has a scent about her, something beyond the scents that she shares with the younger: an intriguing mix of fish and fowl, beast and serpent, all together and yet not quite any of them, and all underlaid with the odor that had clung to some of the humans at the warcamp, like the sharpness in the air just before the flash of lightning.

Those scents twitch along his spine, making him itch with curiosity, but the elder has another smell to her, a swirling blend of age and power and darkness, that keeps him from indulging that curiosity or defying her orders.

"I mean, you'd know if she wasn't, wouldn't you?"

The male is the only one left of the tainted ones...besides his Talia. He had been confused and alarmed when she had first come to him bearing that smell of taint, but underneath it was the same smell that he had always known. It had made it easier to accept the rest of what he decided must be their new pack. Harder to accept had been her subordinate status in the pack, but the thought of her displeasure kept him from asserting himself on her behalf. He had seen others of his kind in the warcamp for the first time since leaving his mother; he and another male glared at each other, stiff-legged and bristling, but both knowing better than to attack each other, while his Talia had spoken with the other's human.

"A fine looking beast, Warden; where did you get him?"

"A gift from my father." The sharp scent of grief from his Talia as she answered. "Out of Bann Lyndon's bitch, Brinda, sired by Talego."

An approving whistle. "Good blood, indeed. They say that the Bann can trace Talego's line back to the time of Dane. I've got a prime bitch going into season soon. After the battle, could we talk about a stud fee?"

His Talia had agreed, but their part in the battle had been a long fight up a tower filled with foul things that smelled of the taint that touched his Talia, though many, many times worse. He fought then for the second time in his life, the dark blood bitter in his mouth, and at the top of the tower, just as the male lit a fire in the hearth, his voice raised in triumph, the door had burst open and a flood of the dark things had poured in. He had seen his Talia fall, and then he was among them with a howl of fury, jaws crushing and tearing until they overwhelmed him.

When he awoke, he did not question how he had gotten from the tower to this new place, or wonder how his wounds had healed (they _did_ still itch from time to time). The younger female had given him food once: a scrawny hare, then scowled and told him to hunt for himself when he tried to cajole more from her. He had been let in to see his Talia once, and while she did not wake in response to his anxious whines and nudges, her scent spoke of healing, rather than death. It was for this reason alone that he permitted the two females to shoo him out of the hut and keep him out. He could still catch traces of his Talia's scent when the door opened, assuring him that she continued to improve.

He misses her, though: misses hearing her voice, feeling her touch. His eyes remain fixed now on the tainted one; he was a part of their new pack, as short-lived as it was, and the smell of grief is strong on him, along with worry...worry for his Talia.

He rises and butts his head against the chest of the tainted one, chuffing softly, trying to reassure him that his Talia will indeed be well soon. The tainted one freezes, then lifts a hand and begins to gingerly scratch at his ears. It is not his Talia, but it feels good, nonetheless, and he groans happily, leaning into the touch.

The hand flies away unexpectedly. "Are you growling at me?"

Brego snorts at the question, then offers a sample of a _real_ growl for comparison. The tainted one's eyes grow wide. "All right, definitely a difference there."

Trusting that his point has been made, Brego leans back in expectantly, and is rewarded by renewed scratching.

"I've heard that mabari are supposed to be smart; can you really understand what I'm saying?"

He lifts his eyes to meet those of the tainted one and barks softly in affirmation.

"Right. You could just be responding to my voice, though. You could just be a drooling moron."

His understanding of the complexities of human speech is far from complete, but he understands 'moron', and growls again: more than a sample, this time.

"All right, all right! I take it back. Everything but the drooling part." The tainted one shakes his hand and wipes it on the grass with a grimace. "No wonder you drink so much; it's coming out at either end."

His Talia's mother had voiced similar objections; he had never understood why, but he had eventually learned to give his head a good, hard shake before coming anywhere near her, just as he had learned never to clean himself in her presence. Evidently, the tainted one will require similar rules.

"I see you have found an intellectual equal to converse with." The younger female strides into camp carrying three dead hares, one of which she tosses at his feet. "Not that you deserve it," she sniffs, "but your clumsy attempts at hunting have driven off all the game within a mile. If I let you roam further, 'twill take me a full day to go far enough to find our own meat."

He sniffs at the hare (a plump one, he notes with anticipation), and lifts his head to offer her a chuff of thanks when he realizes that her smell is...different. The baffling blend of odors is still present, but one is more prominent...and enticingly familiar.

"Oh, no," she warns him, taking a step back as he approaches, sniffing intently. "I'll not have your slobber all over my clothes! Back, I say!"

He hesitates for a moment, but the smell is so strong and so familiar, he has encountered it while hunting, and he can almost tie it to the image of the creature it belongs to. He takes another step forward, his nostrils quivering.

The female's form shimmers, and he abruptly finds himself facing a _cat_ , as large as he is, with a tawny coat and golden eyes. The feline hisses at him and slaps at his nose with a paw; he yelps and retreats to the side of the tainted one, staring at the creature in astonishment.

Another shimmer, and the female returns to her own form, smirking at him. "Let that be a lesson to you," she says, turning and sauntering to the rear of the hut, where she will no doubt clean her catch.

He whines softly, staring after her in confusion.

"I know how you feel," the tainted one tells him, scratching his ears again. "Creepy, isn't it?"


	3. The One Who Smells Of Many

* * *

_"When the Man waked up he said,  
'What is Wild Dog doing here?'  
And the Woman said,  
'His name is not Wild Dog any more,  
but the First Friend,  
because he will be our friend  
for always and always and always.'"_  
\- Rudyard Kipling

* * *

He keeps his nose to the ground, snuffling among the tufted grass and dust, following the scent of the female. She is gone now, and he does not understand why, so he has begun to track her. Her scent is clear in his nose, and yet still muddled, somehow, so many different scents swirling together to make the one. She baffles him, fascinates him, but has made it clear that she has no tolerance for his attempts to satisfy his curiosity.

Her scent changes now, one of the many becoming more pronounced, and he moves forward eagerly, but then it is...gone. He lifts his head, staring around in befuddlement, then drops it again, circling wide and sniffing furiously, but finding nothing.

"Lose something, boy?" He lifts his head again, staring at the male – Alistair is what his Talia calls him. He cocks his head, whining anxiously.

"She'll be back," his Talia says, pausing in packing up her tent to scratch his head. Her voice is toneless, as it has been from the moment she emerged from the hut, and the scent of grief is still strong on her.

"Yes, my luck couldn't possibly be that good," Alistair mutters. He and the female argue frequently; his Talia ignores them, as she ignores most things these days. She even frequently forgets to pet him unless he reminds her by nudging his head beneath her hand, but when he sits beside her at night, she wraps her arms around him and leans her head against his neck, and he can feel the sorrow rolling from her in waves.

"She's better at scouting ahead than either of us," she says now with a shrug. "She's made good on her claim that she could lead us past the -" She breaks off suddenly, her head turning and a hungry expression appearing on her face. "Darkspawn."

Brego is instantly alert, reacting to the change in her tone and the sudden scent of aggression rising from her pores. Alistair does not notice, his attention focused upon pulling on his boots. "She has done that," he agreed with obvious reluctance, "but it's likely because even the darkspawn don't want to be around – what?"

Alistair's head comes up, eyes widening as he senses it now, but unlike the anticipation that Brego can feel radiating from his Talia, the male's scent is one of apprehension. "Wonderful," he groans, pushing himself to his feet as a raven wings into the camp and settles to the ground at Brego's feet.

He stares down at the bird in surprise; it stares back boldly with golden eyes, and, when he lowers his head for a cautious sniff, it pecks his nose. He snorts and shakes his head, then growls, but it regards him fearlessly, hops back and shimmers upward into the form of the female who smells of many things.

"You would do well to turn your attention elsewhere," she advises him with a smirk before turning to address his Talia. "There are perhaps a dozen darkspawn headed in this direction; it seems they have sensed your presence."

"Ogres?" his Talia asks, slipping her helmet onto her head and bending to retrieve her shield.

"None that I saw, nor emissaries," she replies as Alistair begins to speak. "A single alpha hurlock, leading a group of genlocks and hurlocks.

"No chance we can avoid them?" Alistair asks, hurriedly mirroring his Talia's actions, looking considerably less eager.

"As I said, they seem to have sensed you," the female replies with a sniff. "If we try to flee, they will follow, and likely attract more in the process. 'Tis best to deal with them here and now, would you not say?"

"Fine by me." His Talia is already striding out of camp, eyes scanning the surrounding terrain. Brego quickly wheels and leaps to follow her, because now he can smell them on the cool morning air: the sickly sweet stench of dead flesh, the sharp tang of blood, and something else: a dark swirling odor of corruption that belongs to the darkspawn alone.

"Talia!" Alistair's voice behind them goes unheeded, and moments later, Brego can hear the footfalls of the male behind them, speeding as his Talia breaks into a run, sweeping her sword from its sheath. He can see them now: some short and stocky, others taller and long-limbed, all with teeth bared in an unchanging snarl, eyes red-rimmed and burning with hate.

His Talia never slows, plowing into the vanguard, slamming some aside with her shield, slashing indiscriminately at others with her blade, her eyes fixed on the tallest of the group: the leader, and her battle cry drawing an answering howl from the mabari:

"Come on, then!"

The force of her charge drives them together out of the midst of the group, and she gives it no chance to recover: sword opening great gashes in the skin, shield blocking its blade and delivering punishing, smashing blows that keep it staggering backward. She is heedless of those she has put her back to, and two of them turn on her immediately. The attack of the first misses, but the wickedly hooked blade of the second catches her in the back of her left shoulder and drags downward in a shower of broken chain links and blood.

She staggers slightly, her shield arm drooping, and the scent of her blood sends Brego into a rage of his own. In an instant, he is upon her attacker, bearing the creature to the ground, his teeth seeking the soft flesh of the throat and biting deep. His mouth fills with the foul taste of the dark blood, and he shakes his head savagely, snarling deep in his chest, until his foe goes limp beneath him.

He lifts his head, searching fearfully for his Talia, but she has recovered from the surprise of the wound and rallied to finish off the leader, who lays in a spreading pool of dark blood as she whirls to engage the second of her attackers. Behind them, Alistair has squared off against three more, his movements controlled and deliberate, his shield denying them access while his sword darts out again and again to draw blood. A gout of flame to the right sets several more ablaze, announcing the female's entry into the fight.

As he has been trained, he comes in low, teeth slashing across the back of first one leg, then the other, hamstringing his mistress' opponent. As the thing crumples backward, his Talia presses forward, her face a mask of rage as she drives her sword deep into its chest, wrenches it free and spins to throw herself at the darkspawn attacking Alistair.

He is moving to follow her when a sudden change in the currents of air nearby draws his attention. A startled yelp escapes him when he turns to find himself facing an enormous spider that he knows had not been there a moment before. Almost instantly, training and breeding reassert themselves, and he is gathering himself to leap at this new threat when the smell reaches him: the same one that has baffled and lured him for days, though now yet another of the many that make up the whole is dominant. It is the female in yet another form.

Mandibles, as sharp as any blade and dripping with an acrid fluid, plunge into one of the darkspawn who survived the burst of flame; it gives a single convulsive shudder and is still. Instinct propels him forward at one of the tall ones who is rushing at the spider from behind, its blade raised to strike. His weight catches it full in the chest, his mouth closing on the arm that bears the weapon, and there is the satisfying crunch of bone and another gush of the foul blood into his mouth, and then the arm drops away, sword and all; an instant later and he has torn the throat out of this one, as well.

As quickly as it began, the fight is done; his Talia spins away from her last kill, eyes still blazing with bloodlust, looking for another target, and when Alistair reaches out a hand to her shoulder, she turns on him, sword raised, then hesitates.

"I -" She stares at him, the scent of rage fading, confusion and sorrow taking its place. "I'm sorry, Alistair."

"No harm done," he assures her, though his eyes are wide and the scent of apprehension is strong on him. "Just...don't run ahead like that, okay?"

"I - I didn't realize I had." She stares around, her expression dazed, as though she does not quite remember the fight. "I was in camp...wasn't I? And then Morrigan came back, and -" She breaks off, her brow furrowed.

"Lovely." The female has shifted back to her own form and approaches now, regarding his Talia with an expression of wary irritation. "It seems that your fellow Warden has berserker tendencies. That should improve our chances markedly."

His Talia frowns and shakes her head. "I'm not -" she starts to say, but sways and slumps forward, her sword falling from her hand.

Alistair catches her before she can hit the ground and looks at the blood on his hands with dismay. "Morrigan, she's hurt!"

"Is that supposed to surprise me?" The female steps forward, eyes narrowed in irritation as she crouches to examine the wound across his Talia's back. "Get away, you mangy hound!" She shoves him back as he tries to nudge forward, whining anxiously. "Your drool is not what she needs in an open wound! Carry her back to camp." This last, curt command is issued to Alistair, who obeys, ignoring his Talia's protest that she can walk. Sword and shield are left behind, and after a moment of indecision, Brego closes his jaws around the hilt of the sword and drags it gingerly toward the camp. The blade is important to his Talia; he can still catch traces of the scent of her sire in the leather of its grip.

He paces anxiously as they remove her armor, but refrains from whining after a glare from the female.

"I'll just...fix this," Alistair says, taking up the damaged mail shirt and backing away as the female begins to remove his Talia's tunic.

"Do," the female replies dryly, turning to fix her golden gaze upon Brego. "Now, if you are truly as intelligent as is claimed, you will fetch me my herb pouch without slobbering all over it."

Herb pouch. Yes, he knows this: it is the smaller of the two packs the female carries, and is the source of all manner of interesting smells. He tried to investigate it once, and received a rather nasty shock from its owner. He approaches it cautiously now, giving his head a good, hard shake before closing his teeth gingerly around one of the straps and carrying it back to where the female is using water and a cloth to clean the blood from the raw flesh of his Talia's wound.

"I'll be fine," his Talia protests, her voice muffled from being face down upon a bedroll.

"If this wound heals improperly, the movement of your left arm will be permanently impaired," the female informs her crisply. "With that in mind, I suggest that you cease such foolish attempts at bravado and allow me to do what I can." She glances back, dark eyebrows arched slightly in surprise. "It seems that you may be good for something besides eating and producing disgusting odors...which makes you a more useful companion than Alistair."

"And more pleasant than Morrigan," Alistair replies, settling to the ground and beginning to match up the ragged edges of the chainmail, pulling more of the tiny rings from a pouch in his pack. "Mind you, that's not hard."

"And should I be wounded by such harsh judgment?" she inquires, running a finger along the edge of the gaping wound and whispering words that swirl around Brego, unintelligible and unknowable.

"That's cold!" his Talia protests, staring to push herself up, but the female places a hand on her head and presses her right back down.

"Yes, it is. 'Twill numb the skin so that I may bring the edges of the wound together with needle and gut string to speed the healing. If you waste time arguing, however, the effects will wear off, and I do not intend to cast a second time."

His Talia subsides with a final grumble, and the female withdraws a needle and thread from the pack he has brought, and sets to work, her movements swift and sure. Bit by bit, the gaping wound closes, and when she is finished, she lays a pungent smelling poultice over the length of it.

"If you lie still, it should be healed within a few hours; I would suggest that we remain here for another day."

His Talia seems ready to protest further, but after a moment, she nods and relaxes. "Tired," she mumbles, her eyes drifting shut, then popping open again. "Brego. Is he -"

"The beast is fine," the female tells her, drawing a blanket over her bare back. "I shall give him some bloodflower paste to counteract any affect the darkspawn blood might have had on him."

He whines at this. He knows the word 'bloodflower' to mean a bitter tasting stuff that his Talia feeds him after every fight with the darkspawn.

"Do as she tells you, Brego," his Talia tells him, her voice heavy with weariness, and that ends any hesitation on his part. He watches as the female withdraws a small, round wooden box from her pack and opens it to reveal a pinkish-gray paste. She swipes some up on a finger and holds it out to him, grimacing as he dutifully licks it off. It is not as bad as the darkspawn blood, but it is bitter, and he can feel the juices flooding his mouth in response.

He backs well away from the female before shaking his head, swallowing and working his jaws convulsively. A pool of stagnant water is nearby, and he buries his snout in it willingly, gulping down the stale water to clear the other taste from his mouth.

The female watches him, her expression resigned. "That should do wonders for the consistency of your bowels," she murmurs tartly. "I shall scout the area again, to be certain that the fight did not draw more darkspawn...and perhaps try to catch a hare for our dinner." Her form shimmers again, and a hawk, its feathers a gleaming brown and gold, lifts into the sky on powerful wings.

He stares after her, pondering. She was undoubtedly a part of the older female's pack, but she accompanied them now, and fought beside them. Twice, she had helped his Talia when she was hurt, and his Talia had ordered him to obey her. It seemed that she was part of their pack now, as well.

He pondered for a few moments longer to remember the name that his Talia and Alistair called her by.

Morrigan. The female's name was Morrigan.


	4. The One Who Sings

_I talk to him when I'm lonesome like; and I'm sure he understands._

_When he looks at me so attentively, and gently licks my hands;_

_then he rubs his nose on my tailored clothes, but I never say naught thereat._

_For the good Lord knows I can buy more clothes, but never a friend like that."_

_**W. Dayton Wedgefarth** _

* * *

"You are such a handsome fellow!"

Brego cocks his head, looking up at the red haired female with a wag of his tail. Her voice, gentle and lilting, reminds him somewhat of the female who had been Fergus' mate, as do the songs that she sings in camp at night. His Talia had sung before, to the child, but the boy is dead, and his Talia has not sung or laughed since they left home. She sneaks him morsels of food when his Talia is not looking, as well, as the other female had once done.

"Yes, you are a handsome dog! Yes, you are!"

He wags his tail again and offers a soft chuff of agreement, not sure what else she might want. Not that he does not appreciate the attention, but -

"He's a mabari, not a baby." His Talia has paused and is looking back at them, a trace of impatience coloring her voice. "And he's supposed to be scouting ahead."

Shame washes through him at the reprimand. He knew his duty, but there had been a clump of grass that had borne the scent of a wolf, and he had paused to cover it with his own mark, and then there had been a rabbit hole, and then the red haired female had spoken to him. He likes her, but his Talia does not seem to care one way or the other…she cares only for fighting, these days. He thinks sometimes that perhaps it is the taint that he can smell in her now that has changed her so; he would drive it from her if he could, but he has no idea how to do so, so he fights beside her in the day, listens to her cry out in her sleep at night and allows her to cling to him when she wakes with the scent of grief overwhelming all else.

Giving the female a last, friendly chuff, he bounds forward, his head high as he scents the breeze of the warm afternoon, then low to snuffle along the ground, seeking traces of what has passed here recently and ignoring the tantalizing odors that try to draw him away from his task. He is a Good Dog, not a Bad Dog; he will not disappoint his Talia again.

He is not so far ahead that he cannot hear the conversation as the female falls into step beside his Talia.

"Do not scold him, please," she says softly. "The fault was mine for distracting him."

"He knows better; you don't." His Talia's voice is toneless again, and he knows that if he looks back, that her eyes will not be upon the other woman, but scanning the terrain ahead with that alert, hungry look that is so often on her face now. "And I was reminding him, not scolding him."

"I have heard tales of the mabari warhounds, but he is the first one that I have seen," the woman offers. "Are they really as smart as they say?"

"Depends on which 'they' you mean," his Talia replies indifferently. "And which mabari. They differ just like people do, but Brego is smarter than most of the people I know."

He swells with pride at this, but keeps his attention on his duty as Morrigan's scornful laugh rings out:

"Including Alistair, surely!"

"Smarter than me and nicer than Morrigan," Alistair calls from his rearguard position.

" _Parshaara_ ," the large male rumbles, the word not one that Brego understands, but the disapproval in his voice strong, though that is usually the case on the rare occasions when he speaks. "Your noise will draw any darkspawn in the area to us."

"Fear, Sten?" Morrigan's voice takes on a mocking lilt. "I would not have expected that from you."

"The darkspawn are formidable opponents," the male replies. "It is not fear to acknowledge this fact, and it is folly to ignore it. The advantage of surprise should be preserved whenever possible."

He is still unsure of the large male. He does not smell like any human or elf that Brego has encountered, and unlike Alistair or the red-haired female, he does not try to befriend Brego with scraps of food or kind words. He simply watches the dog, as he watches them all, without speaking.

His Talia has become angry with the large male more than once since she released him from his cage, but he never becomes angry in return, just as he never responds to Morrigan's taunting. His Talia spars with him almost every night in camp now, and this makes her as close to happy as Brego has seen her since leaving Highever, though she still does not smile as she once did.

The red haired female sighs as the others fall silent. "I am sorry," she says in a low voice that likely only Brego and his Talia can hear.

"Morrigan and Alistair have been arguing since the first time they met," his Talia answers in an equally quiet tone. "That's not your fault."

"How old is Brego?" the other asks after a moment.

"My – father gave him to me on my twelfth birthday," his Talia answers, the hitch in her words so brief that perhaps only Brego is aware of it. He chances a brief look back, seeing the pain flicker across her face and vanish, leaving the scent of grief in its wake. "So…five and a half years old."

"You're only seventeen?" The surprise in the female's voice is audible.

"Eighteen, this Harvestmere," his Talia replies, adding, without any real interest, "How old are you?"

"Twenty-five," the female says, and Brego can smell the fresh wave of grief from his Talia.

"My brother was twenty-five," she whispers, and Brego can hear the sudden quickening of her stride. Moments later, she is drawing up alongside him, her face set in grim lines, dark eyes haunted. He whines softly, nudging his head beneath her hand, and she scratches his ear automatically without looking down.

"Talia, wait!" the female calls after her, then apparently remembers the large male's call for silence. "Damnation," she mutters under her breath.

They continue forward without further conversation until, as sometimes happens when the wind is just right, he catches the scent before his Talia or Alistair become aware. He stops immediately at the foot of a shallow rise, standing stiff-legged and growling softly, his hackles bristling as he stares upward.

"Darkspawn." His Talia can feel them too, now, standing beside him and gesturing for the others to move forward.

Alistair's face is intent, his brow slightly furrowed as he crouches, loosening the straps of his pack and letting it slide carefully to the ground, the others doing the same. "Half a dozen, maybe," he murmurs, sliding his sword from its sheath.

His Talia nods, her eyes alight with a dreadful eagerness, the scent of the battlerage beginning to seep from her pores. "Morrigan, Leliana, fight from the top of the hill. Sten and Alistair, circle to the right; Brego, follow me to the left." She is in motion almost before she is done speaking, drawing her sword as she breaks away from the others in a run, and he follows her, Alistair's urgent whisper lost in the fall of her feet on the ground and the rush of the wind in his ears.

"Talia, wait! There's something – _dammit_! Everybody _move_!"

"You just _had_ to bring up her family, didn't you?" Morrigan's sarcastic query is the last thing he hears before they round the curve of the hill and the darkspawn come into view: genlocks, hurlocks and, towering over the rest, the same type of massive beast they had faced atop the tower, lips skinning back from yellowed fangs in a thundering bellow.

His Talia's steps never falter as she hurls herself into the midst of the group, blade flashing briefly in the sun before the first gout of dark blood bursts into the air as her strike opens the throat of a genlock. She spins, her shield catching it as it falls and sending it flailing into one of the others as she targets yet another, and magic and arrows begin to sing through the air, aimed at the ogre.

Brego lunges, his jaws closing around the knee of the nearest hurlock and closing until he can feel the bones splinter between his teeth. Releasing the leg, he is immediately at its throat as it sinks to the ground; an instant later, and it is dead as Alistair and the large male join the fight.

The lesser creatures fall quickly, but the ogre lashes out with a massive fist and his Talia is sent tumbling, her sword flying from her grasp. Alistair attacks and is snatched up and shaken like a rag doll in the beast's grasp: the same, savage assault that had killed the mage who had fought alongside them in the tower.

" _No!_ " His Talia scrambles to her feet, heedless of the absence of her sword as she charges in, using her free hand to grab the tattered armor tied to its body with rope and leather straps and pull herself upward, slamming at it with her shield, screaming curses at it. "Me, you bastard! Fight _me_!"

The beast roars, dropping Alistair and grabbing for her. She whoops with glee, hammering at it again, and her reckless laugh continues as its claws close around her shoulder and hurl her away, stopping only when she crashes into the trunk of a tree.

Brego howls his fury and darts in, sinking his teeth into a heavy calf, but it is the large male who ends the fight, moving in behind the ogre and slicing across the backs of its knees, then driving the point of his massive sword deep into the center of its chest when it topples backward to the ground.

"Alistair!" The red-haired female scrambles down the hill, tossing her bow aside in her haste. "Talia! Maker, please, no!"

"I'm all right!" Alistair wheezes, pushing himself slowly to his hands and knees. "Check on Talia; I'm all right." He tries to stand, but sinks back to his knees with a groan.

"I will be the judge of that," Morrigan announces irritably as she strides to his side, fishing in the pouch at her hip. "See to the other idiot, and summon me if her injuries seem severe," she orders the other female, shoving a handful of poultices and potions at her before crouching beside Alistair. "Sten, it seems I will need your assistance to pry him out of his armor."

Brego races to his Talia's side; she is moving slowly, carefully working her arm free of her shield. "I'm all right, boy," she mumbles as he nudges her gingerly, but she is pale, her right arm held close, guarding that side, and when she pulls her helmet off and drops it to the ground, a bout of coughs leaves her lips smeared with blood, the scent strong in his nostrils, and he whines, looking anxiously to the red haired female as she arrives.

"You most certainly are not!" she says heatedly, restraining his Talia with a hand on her shoulder when she tries to stand.

"Alistair," his Talia croaks, craning her neck, staring toward where Morrigan and the large male all but hide him from view. "Is he –" She breaks off fearfully.

"He's fine," the female assures her briskly. "In better shape than you right now. Drink this."

Her tone does not invite argument, and his Talia takes the vial and downs the contents with a grimace. "Just my ribs," she grunts, then gasps as the female prods at the area.

"At least one is likely broken," she says, removing his Talia's sword belt with swift efficiency. "This will hurt," she warns as she reaches for the lower edge of the chainmail hauberk.

His Talia bats her hands away, looking suddenly alarmed. "My sword!" she exclaims, trying to rise again. "Where –"

The female pushes her back down once more. "Unless it has grown legs, it is undoubtedly still where you dropped it," she informs her with no small amount of exasperation, "and I've no doubt that this smart fellow would be willing to bring it to you." The blue eyes turn to him expectantly, and he barks once before bounding away, eager to be doing something for his Talia.

The sword is not hard to find, and by the time he returns, holding the grip carefully in his teeth, the female has helped his Talia remove her chainmail.

"It will be easier to apply the poultice and wrap without your tunic," she begins hesitantly.

His Talia snorts. "You really think anyone is looking right now?" she asks, wincing as she pulls the shirt over her head. The ribs on her right side, just below her breastband, are already turning an ugly mix of blue, green and black. The female applies the poultice with a sure touch, then wraps a bandage around her chest several times, pulling it snug.

"Ow!" his Talia complains.

"If it's not tight enough, the broken ends will scrape against each other every time you breathe or move," the female informs her.

"Too tight, and I won't be able to breathe at all," his Talia grumbles, but she draws a slow, careful breath, then another, the tension in her face easing and a bit more color returning to her cheeks as she nods.

Morrigan approaches and crouches, examining the wrap and peering into his Talia's face. "A competent job," she concedes. "You've had some practice at this sort of thing, it seems."

"Healers are rare on the road," the female replies, meeting the witch's gaze steadily. "One learns what one must."

"Indeed." Golden eyes remain locked on blue, the challenge crackling through the air almost palpably, and Brego whines, nudging Morrigan. She glares at him, but rises. "We will obviously be going no further today," she announces. "Those ribs will need at least a night to heal, and the other fool's breastplate has several dents that must be beaten back out before he can wear it again. I will scout the area and see about a hare or two for dinner while the rest of you deal with the corpses and set up camp."

Without waiting for an answer, she shimmers into the form of an eagle and lifts into the sky.

"It would be a fine thing to be able to fly, no?" the female asks him as he stares after the bird. "I know a song about a dog and a butterfly; perhaps I can sing it for you, once we are settled?"

He looks at her with interest, but his Talia makes a scornful sound. "Why would a dog want to be a butterfly?" she asks, pulling her tunic back on and reaching for her sword.

"They can fly, and they are beautiful," the female responds with a shrug. "In Val Royeaux, ladies planted whole flower gardens just to attract them, and at times, it looked as though the air was filled with jewels: brilliant red and green and blue and gold swirling about –"

"And all of them crushed by a child's careless hand, or torn apart by a strong wind. A falcon or an eagle, maybe, but butterflies?" His Talia dismisses the notion with a shake of her head. "Give me a good, sturdy mabari without wings any day. She finishes cleaning her sword and returns it to its sheath, gripping at Brego's collar to pull herself to her feet.

"You should rest," the female admonishes her, but his Talia shakes her head again. The energy of battle has faded from her, and he can smell the pain that has nothing to do with her injuries beginning to reassert itself.

"I don't need to rest," she says, staring at the darkspawn corpses as though wishing they would rise up so that she can fight them again. "Sten, Alistair, let's get them piled up and burned." She starts to stride away, but pauses, glancing back at the red haired female. "Thanks, Leliana," she says simply, touching a hand to her ribs.

"I was glad to be able to help," the female replies, watching her walk away and giving a dispirited sigh. "She would fight from sunup to sundown, if she could, just to keep from thinking, would she not?" she asks softly, the blue eyes sad as they turn to him. "And the memories will still find her when she stops."

He gives a low whine, and she reaches out to scratch his ear with a wan smile. "I am glad that she has you, at least. Everyone should be so fortunate as to have a friend who will never betray or abandon them."

She hides it far better than his Talia, but he can smell the sorrow and the fear in her, and he wonders at its cause. Perhaps she lost her pack, as well? She has proven herself a part of this one now, and her name is Leliana.

He stretches forward to lick her cheek, forgetting that he had not yet cleaned his mouth of the darkspawn blood, but she does not flinch away, taking the gesture as it is intended and wrapping her arms around his neck.

"Thank you, _mon ami_ ," she whispers. "Now, let us help the others, yes?"


	5. The Stone That Speaks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brego tries to figure out Shale, and vice-versa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: And finally some new material! Sten's chapter has been moved; it initially took place following the same ogre fight as the last chapter, and immediately preceding the events in Chapter 4 in MIT. I decided to spread things out a bit more, & decided that Sten's discontent would make more sense on the way to Soldier's Peak.
> 
> This chapter once again correlates closely with MIT, this time showing what Shale and Brego were doing during the campfire scene in Chapter 6. I'll be reworking Sten's chapter a bit, get it posted, and then back to the rework on the main story!

With eye upraised his master's look to scan,  
The joy, the solace, and the aid of man:  
The rich man's guardian and the poor man's friend,  
The only creature faithful to the end.

**_George Crabbe_ **

* * *

"You like her, don't you?" Brego cocks his head and regards his Talia with a soft whine. She speaks of Leliana, he knows, and he does like the female...but he is not sure if his Talia does. Last night, something Leliana said had angered his Talia, caused her pain, but while this would normally have made him hostile in turn, the scent of hurt from Leliana had been almost as strong as that from Talia, and he had heard her crying in her tent after their watch had ended.

Then, today, something Alistair had said had made his Talia look at Leliana with suspicion, the scent of hostility making his fur bristle and his eyes search for an enemy, but then the scent of darkspawn had come on the wind, and all else had been set aside as they had entered a town to find darkspawn and demons and a cat – a _cat!_ – who spoke and then turned into a demon, and then finally, a massive stone that spoke and moved and, to Brego's consternation, accompanied his pack when they left the town.

Stone should not speak, and it definitely should not move. It looked like a stone; it even _smelled_ like a stone, which is to say, it had no scent at all, save the scent of what had been left upon it by the elements and the villagers and countless birds. It had confused him greatly, and he had stayed away while his Talia had spoken with it, all the time worrying what he could do if it attacked her. Surely, he would break his teeth if he tried to bite it, but try he would, if the thing tried to harm his Talia, or any other in his pack.

Was Leliana included in that number? He had begun to think so, but today, his Talia's scent, and the way she has been regarding the female make him wonder. There is no anger in her scent now, though; only the first hints of the pain that comes to her every night.

"Do you miss them?" The scent of pain deepens, and he knows that she speaks now of their first pack. He does miss them: her father, with his deep voice and ready approval; her mother, who scolded him often, but snuck him treats when no one was looking; Fergus, who would wrestle with him; Fergus' mate, with her gentle hands and voice, but it is the small one, Oren, that he misses the most, misses the small arms around his neck, the piping voice calling his name, the way that he could make his Talia smile and laugh.

His last memories of their first pack are filled with the scents of blood and death and fire and fear and rage, and sorrow wells up in him anew with the memories, his pain matching hers, and he lowers his head to press it against her chest, seeking comfort as well as offering it.

"I should apologize to her, shouldn't I?"

Occasionally – more than occasionally – the complexities of human speech leave him confused, but he almost never has difficulty comprehending his Talia's meaning. His nose is attuned to the subtleties of her scent, and he has been trained to observe her every gesture, even as he listens to her words. She is looking at Leliana now, the scents of doubt and guilt replacing the pain. He lifts his head to meet her eyes, woofing gently, looks to the fire and Leliana, then back to his Talia. She doesn't want to be angry with Leliana; she wants her to be part of their pack, and Brego thinks this is a good thing (and not only because he hopes that one of the birds that Leliana is cooking will be offered to him). But if she decides otherwise, he will obey, because she is his Talia, and he loves her best.

It is one of the times that he wishes so that he could speak, to be sure that she knows what he feels, but he must make do with staring deep into her eyes and giving a low whine, and, as is most often the case, she does understand him.

"All right," she says, smiling at him and scratching his ears. "I'll do it."

He wants to go with her, but duty demands that he make a closer examination of the stone that talks, determine just what its place will be in the pack, so while his Talia approaches the fire, he circles wide, staying within the treeline, but growing ever closer to where the stone stands in a clearing. It is motionless, the flickering lights that dance across its surface when it moves gone dull and sluggish.

He drops to his belly and inches from the trees, low in the grass, only his head up, sniffing, confirming that baffling not-scent, as well as...

"Pigeon crap."

The deep, resonant voice startles him, and he freezes, staring at the stone.

"What it is smelling, dog, is decades of pigeon crap," the stone continues. "They would land upon me, build nests upon my shoulders, and all the time make their disgusting deposits all over me! And those insipid villagers thought it was _cute_! Put out seeds to draw them in! And twice a year – only _twice_! - they would scrub it off of me. I have had more than enough of serving as a latrine."

Brego sits up, regarding the stone quizzically. No, he would not like to have birds doing that to him. He didn't much care for birds. The chickens at Highever had pecked at his nose, secure in the knowledge that he was not permitted to chase them. He glances over his shoulder at the fire. His Talia is speaking to Leliana, but it is the smell of the birds that draws his attention now, making his mouth water. The stone had killed them all with a sudden wash of light across its surface and a sharp scent that resembled Morrigan's magic, and he thinks this would have been a fine thing to be able to do...to simply lie still until one of the annoying things hopped on his back or head, and then -

"I am informing it of this for a reason, dog," the stone spoke again. "Does it know how many of its kind urinated on me in that village? And all I could do is stand there and watch, helpless. If I see one of those legs lift so much as an inch in my direction - pow!"

Brego utters a whine of protest. He is a Good Dog, and he has not relieved himself inappropriately since he was a puppy...with one exception. The first tainted one, who had taken his Talia from their pack. Brego could smell his Talia's grief, her desire to return to their pack, yet the tainted one only took them ever further away, but when he tried to challenge him, his Talia had forbidden it. He might not be able to fight his adversary, but he refused to accept his dominance; each time the tainted one had taken his armor off, Brego had placed his mark upon it, showing this interloper just where his place was. His Talia had not scolded him for this, and had given him a treat when the tainted one was not looking.

Brego would not do such a thing to one that his Talia had brought into their pack, however strange they might be. The thought has not even occurred to him, and to make his point, he rises, trots to a tree and relieves himself against it, then sits down, watching the stone expectantly.

"Good," it rumbles. "I am glad we have this understanding. At least your kind can be reasoned with... unlike those damned feathered fiends!"

Brego gives a soft bark of agreement, rising and drawing closer cautiously.

"I gather that it is supposed to be more intelligent than the average mutt," it addresses him. "I propose an experiment of sorts – my former master was quite fond of experiments, but rest assured that I shall not do anything so undignified as to discover if it can pull a plow or how many bales of hay it can carry so that lazy villagers need not bestir themselves. No, I simply wish to determine how much of what I say it truly understands. I will ask it questions that can be answered with a simple 'yes' or 'no'. If the answer is 'yes', it is to bark as it just did. If the answer is 'no', scratch at the ground with a paw. Does it understand?"

Much of the stone's words make little sense, but Brego comprehends the last and replies with a soft chuff.

Glowing eyes fix upon him. "Hmmph. It could simply be a coincidence. What if I was to ask it if it were a cat?"

He sits up straighter, suppressing the indignant yelp that tries to escape him and digs vigorously at the ground with one paw.

An odd sound comes from the stone, one that he finally decides is laughter. "Most intriguing. I must admit that having devised a means of communication, I am uncertain what to ask of it. Does it possess free will, as well as intelligence, or is it compelled to obey the Warden by magic?"

He cocks his head, and uncertain whine bubbles in his throat as he decides how to respond. He settles for first barking, as softly as his outrage at the question will let him, and then digging a deep furrow in the earth before him with repeated rakes of his paw.

"I should interpret that as 'yes' to the first part of my question, and 'no' to the second?" the stone inquires, earning another bark. "Intelligent, indeed...for a dog, though it would be far more interesting if it were able to explain to me why it follows the Warden, if not magical compulsion. The dogs in the village were slavishly devoted to their masters, fawning over them shamelessly, but they were dolts. Is servitude so great a part of canine nature that even enhanced intelligence cannot eliminate it? But of course, you were bred by men, and they would not want to eliminate something so useful to themselves."

Brego wishes once again that he _could_ speak, if only so he could tell this foolish stone that it is _not_ servitude: she is _his_ Talia, she leads his pack, and he is hers because he loves her and not because of any funny-smelling magic. But the sudden scent of fear on the wind captures his attention, and he turns to the fire, where Morrigan has joined Leliana and his Talia. It is from Leliana that the scent of fear comes, and he whines anxiously as voices rise and the smell of his Talia's growing anger joins the fear. Alistair comes out of his tent, and Brego feels hopeful; the male is often able to calm his Talia's anger, sometimes even make her laugh.

"An argument?" The stone sounds uninterested. "I could tell it so many tales of the petty squabbles I was forced to witness in the village, but that would be gossiping, would it not? Still, most of those concerned are dead, so I suppose – what?"

Brego ignores the stone. His head has snapped around, nostrils flaring and ears straining as he tries to identify what alerted him. There! A scent, faint against the wind, of a strange human male, and now the sound of feet moving through grass. He drops to his belly and crawls around the stone, until its glow is at his back, no longer blinding him to what lays beyond.

A shadow moves in the moonlight: a single man, approaching the camp without stealth. Brego can detect no scent of aggression, nor see any weapons in his hands, but his duty is to guard his pack, and that is what he will do. His Talia can decide what the newcomer's intent is.

Keeping low to the ground and moving swiftly, he closes the distance to the intruder and leaps with a snarl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.N. - Shale was without a doubt the hardest character to find the voice for until the events in the Deep Roads revealed her origins and restored her memories. Once again, smell is the first way that Brego acquaints himself with a newcomer, and the lack of an innate scent would be as baffling (and suspicious) as Morrigan's melange of smells is fascinating.
> 
> The method of communication devised by Shale is loosely based on one used by Dean Koontz in "Watchers" (a must-read for all dog lovers). I figured the golem would have sufficient curiosity about what appeared to be another creature bound in servitude to humans to want to be able to ask. It never occurred to Talia because she and Brego have always understood each other quite well. I'd imagine that Leliana would have hit on it, given a little more time, but there have been more pressing matters on her mind to date.
> 
> Now that I've established it, I'll probably have other characters utilize it and work it in here and there on the MIT edits.


	6. The Sten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brego and Sten come to an understanding of sorts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place after the events in Chapter 6 of MIT, on the journey to Soldier's Peak.

_"He is your friend, your partner, your defender, your dog. You are his life, his love, his leader. He will be yours, faithful and true, to the last beat of his heart. You owe it to him to be worthy of such devotion."_

_**\- Unknown** _

* * *

"The Blight. How do you propose to end it?"

Brego lifts his head, regarding the Sten as he approaches his Talia, towering over her. She looks up from the fire, the whetstone pausing in its steady path along her blade. She is not afraid of him; she is afraid of nothing these days, except for whatever chases her from sleep, and Brego cannot fight those things. He is hungry to serve his Talia, near desperate to do something - if he only knew what! - to drive the scents of rage and grief from her, to hear her laugh again, to have her join him in play.

"We have to kill the archdemon," she replies, her voice toneless, her eyes dropping once again to her task.

"And how do you plan to accomplish this?" He does not shout; he never shouts, outside of battle, but his voice is loud, nonetheless, and there is a hardness to it that is new. Brego tenses, sniffing the air, but there is no trace of anger or aggression in the silent one's unique scent. 'Qunari', they call him, and 'Sten', the latter more than the former, though neither has any meaning for the mabari. Sometimes, he can catch a hint of a smell that _might_ be sadness coming from the large male, but it is always fleeting, gone before he can identify it properly and leaving only the alien scent that defies all his attempts to learn more of this member of their pack. "The darkspawn are behind us. Do you intend to travel north until it becomes south and attack the archdemon from the rear?"

"We're going to Soldier's Peak, Sten." Weariness laces his Talia's tone, along with frustration and a sliver of anger at the challenge. "If we're going to be taken seriously as Grey Wardens, we need to have something besides the ass-kicking we took at Ostagar to show the people we're going to be asking to ally themselves with us."

"And you believe that fleeing from the darkspawn to an abandoned ruin will impress them?" He cocks his head, regarding her steadily. "I find that unlikely."

"We're not fleeing," his Talia growls, the scent of her anger growing, "and according to Levi, the keep is far from abandoned. Besides," she continues, giving Alistair a mirthless smile, "it was a Warden holding. Maybe we'll find something there that explains how to kill the archdemon." She had argued bitterly with Alistair about the change of course, and in the two days since they started northward, the tension between them is still strong, worrying Brego. He likes Alistair, but if he challenges his Talia for leadership of their pack, Brego _will_ fight him, however reluctantly.

He feels no such liking for the Sten, however, and his eyes remain locked on the large male, his body tensed, ready to spring at the first hint of hostility.

"But you do not know if such information will be found there." The Sten scowls at this. "You say that you are a Grey Warden. I have heard stories of this order."

"Well, good to know that the order's reputation has spread as far as... Qunari-land, or wherever it is that you're from. What are your lands called, anyway?" Alistair speaks quickly, his tone high with the nervousness that seeps from his pores, replacing the anger at their pack leader. He is trying to distract the Sten, trying to protect her. He will fight beside her, should the Sten attack.

His Talia ignores Alistair, coming to her feet. "You doubt that we are Grey Wardens?" she challenges him, almost eagerly. She is ready for a fight, hungry for battle as she always is now, and Brego readies himself to come to her aid, should it come to fighting. The Sten is formidable in combat, possibly a match for Brego, himself, but if he must die to protect his Talia, he will do so willingly.

Sten does not answer his Talia's challenge with aggression of his own; he simply stares down at her, ignoring Alistair's words as though he had not spoken. A faint hint of what he now knows as magic touches Brego's nostrils, crisp and sharp with potential: Morrigan is watching from her place beside the stewpot, her alert scent belying her seemingly casual posture and the lazy interest in her golden eyes. Leliana is watching, as well, her expression worried and her hand sliding carefully toward her bow. They will also aid his Talia, should the Sten attack her, and this knowledge heartens him; the dissension in their pack is not so great as he feared.

The little man that Brego had caught outside their camp sits on the far side of the fire, eyes wide and the scent of alarm strong, but he is not a part of their pack, and Brego has ignored him since his Talia gave the order to release his hold on the man's leg. In a fight, he might aid the one who has agreed to aid him, and though he will surely not be much help or hindrance, Brego does not believe he would ally himself with the Sten.

Shale is another matter. The stone simply watches: unmoving, eyes glowing faintly, emitting no scent, giving no indication from its posture as to who it might side with. If it joins the Sten, even the combined strength of the rest of the pack will be hard pressed to best them.

"Great strategists and peerless warriors. That is what we were told of the Wardens." The Sten's nostrils flare as he shakes his head slowly. "So far, I am not impressed."

"I'm not here to impress you!" his Talia snarls, fist clenched until the knuckles are white around the grip of her sword, rage pouring off of her in every scent and sound, and Brego trembles with the need to attack whatever has angered her so, rend it with his teeth until it is no more. If he could catch even a hint of aggression from the Sten, he would attack without hesitation, but his scent remains bafflingly free of any trace of emotion, violent or otherwise.

He studies her for a long, silent moment, then replies, "Evidently not. It remains to be seen just what you _are_ here for." Turning, he strides calmly to the edge of camp, where his bedroll is laid out. His Talia watches the Sten go, then sheaths her sword and spins with a muttered oath, stalking away from the fireside to the opposite side of camp, then out of sight.

"Talia –"

"Don't." Alistair holds out a hand to restrain Leliana as she starts to follow his Talia. "Just let her cool down for a bit." Brego can smell the relief and worry from both of them, but his greatest attention is claimed by the scents that his Talia emanates: anger and grief, which are common for her these days, and fear, which is not. She is afraid...and the Sten is the cause.

Brego's hackles stand on end, and he walks, stiff-legged, toward the qunari, barely hearing Alistair's voice:

"Andraste's silk knickers...I changed my mind. Get her, _now_."

Brego ignores the words, and Leliana's swift departure. His eyes are locked upon the Sten, who glances up as he approaches. Brego lets his lips skin back from his teeth, a low growl rumbling up from his chest. This qunari _will_ learn his place in the pack.

The Sten's eyes are calm, not a trace of fear or aggression in his scent as he leans forward slightly...and growls back.

"Grrrrrrrrrr."

Brego pauses, astonished, but quickly recovers, determined to make his point. He takes another step forward, his growl louder, and is echoed again by the Sten:

"GRRRRRRRR."

And still, there is nothing in his scent to trigger either triumph or an attack. Is the Sten playing a game? In spite of his anger, Brego lets his tail give a single, cautious bob as he growls again.

Instead of growling in return, the Sten sits back and nods, a faint scent of approval touching him. "Yes. You are a true warrior, and worthy of respect."

Loyal Brego is without doubt, but he is also at least somewhat susceptible to flattery, and he utters a curious whine as his tail bobs up and down once, twice...still ready to attack, should his nose give him a reason.

"What's going on?" His Talia approaches, looking from Brego to the Sten. "Brego, leave him be. He's an...ally."

There is no real censure in her tone, but Brego obeys immediately, stepping to her side and allowing his fur to lay flat. The Sten regards her as calmly as he did Brego.

"That such a creature would follow you would seem to indicate that there is more to you than it seems. I hope that its loyalty is not misplaced."

Talia says nothing in response, merely turns and walks away, her hand on Brego's head as clear an order to follow as a tug on a leash...which he has not required since the days of his puppyhood. He stays at her side as she walks out of camp again, sinking down on the side of a hill and leaning into him as her eyes turn upward to the sliver of a moon overhead.

"So do I."


	7. The End of the Chase

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter parallels chapter 10 of 'Moments In Time'.

_"My dog is usually pleased with what I do, because he is not infected with the concept of what I 'should' be doing."  
\- **Lonzo Idolswine** _

* * *

"Talia, stop!"

His Talia does stop in response to Alistair's shout, but it is a near thing. Brego can smell the rebellion mixing with the fear that has been growing steadily since they set out well before dawn this morning, but both are nearly lost beneath the stench of death that has also been growing stronger, almost obliterating the scent that he is tracking, despite the fact that the source is very, very close.

"She's close, Alistair!" His Talia is breathing hard, sweat coursing down her face. They have been moving fast, and since Brego caught Leliana's scent directly on the wind, they have been running: Brego in the lead, his Talia close behind, with Morrigan flying above them as a hawk and the rest trying to keep up. "Brego can smell her!"

"Lothering is close, Talia!" Alistair staggers to a stop beside her, gasping for breath and jabbing a finger forward. "There's the windmill! There are darkspawn there; I can feel them! You promised -"

"No more than a dozen!" his Talia protests wildly. "We can take that many!"

"But what if there are more?"

"There aren't!" she shouts. "You know I can feel them more clearly than you can, and I'm telling you, there aren't more than a dozen in Lothering right now!"

"The Warden is correct," the Sten rumbles as he joins them. Though he has run as long as any of them, he does not appear to be tired. "Her sense of the darkspawn is superior to yours, and twelve are well within our capability."

"I thought you didn't want to do this," Alistair says to the Sten.

"We have come this far; to turn back because of a foe that we can defeat with ease makes even less sense than coming here in the first place."

"Twelve?" Shale lumbers to a stop, the ground shaking slightly beneath the golem's steps. "I could dispatch that many without assistance."

The hawk spirals down from the sky and shimmers into Morrigan's form. "Half a score or so of darkspawn in Lothering with a single emissary," she reports, "and against all probability, the Chantry sheep has reached the outskirts of the town. She will see them...and they her, very shortly."

His Talia glances over her shoulder. "Alistair, please! We're so close! We can't just let her die!"

He follows her gaze, and Brego knows that he wants to obey her, does not want to leave Leliana here. His scent screams it. "Just the dozen or so?" he asks Morrigan. "You're sure?"

She gives him a withering stare. "There were also several hundred with the archdemon just south of town," she snaps, "but I did not think you would be interested in that. Of _course_ , I am sure! I have no interest in dying for that fool, but the current numbers should not pose any real threat...as long as we fight with something remotely resembling a strategy." This last is delivered to his Talia with a glare.

She nods, her hand on the sword that the smith had given her as they left the mountain castle. His Talia had not wanted to surrender the sword that still held the scent of her father in the leather of its grip, but in the few skirmishes they have fought on the way, the new blade has served her well, the scent of its magic sizzling through the blood that it spills. "Right," she says, clearly fighting the urge to turn and race ahead, the fear still strong in her scent, the battle rage trying to rise beneath it. "We have to move quickly. I'm the fastest; I'll go in first and try to draw them to me. Morrigan, you find high ground, and as soon as you see them clustered close enough, send in a fireball."

"At you?" the witch demands incredulously.

"Wait until you can see my eyes," his Talia tells her. "If I can see it coming, I can duck and cover. Alistair, you find Leliana and make sure you're both down when the fireball hits. It should cause enough damage to make the cleanup easy. Sten -"

" _NO!_ "

Alistair and his Talia both jerk around at the scream, panic surging in his Talia's scent, along with the rage that swells and is quickly tamped down. "Sten come in on the left flank, Shale on the right! Brego, stay with Sten! Go! Now!" The last words are shouted over her shoulder as she races away from them, sweeping her sword from its sheath. Brego wants to follow her, but she has given him an order, so he follows the Sten as he turns and begins to run, his body stretching out to cover the ground alongside the qunari, claws digging into the turf to propel him forward at ever greater speed. His Talia will _not_ face a foe alone.

They angle outwards, then back in, the giant shortening his stride, slowing, his eyes turned ahead. Brego cannot see what he is looking at: at this distance, it is a blur of moving shapes, but his nose paints a clear picture: Leliana is there, and the darkspawn, and then his Talia, the battle rage teasing at the edge of her scent and the stench of darkspawn blood rising in the air with her battle cry:

"Come on, then!"

He wants to bay a challenge of his own, wants to race ahead to fight at her side, but he matches his pace to that of the Sten, because his Talia has given him an order, and he will obey her. Ahead, Alistair's scent joins his Talia's, then Morrigan's, the sharp tang of magic stinging briefly at his nostrils before bright fire blossoms ahead, adding the stink of charred darkspawn flesh to the mix.

"Now," the Sten rumbles, breaking into a full run that Brego mirrors, the blurred shapes swiftly resolving into a churning mass of friend and foe. He barrels past Leliana, slamming into a hurlock that is challenging his Talia, taking it to the ground and burying his teeth in its throat. He shakes his head from side to side, closing his jaws tighter, and the darkspawn stiffens in a sudden rush of foul blood that he knows he must not eat. He releases his now limp target, giving his head another shake to clear the nasty stuff from his mouth, then wheels to hamstring his Talia's opponent, feeling the ground shake with Shale's blows, hearing the shouts of challenge from Alistair and the Sten, smelling the stink of darkspawn blood and the pungency of magic on the air.

As predicted, the fight is done with quickly, the darkspawn slain and none of their pack injured. His Talia wipes the blood from her sword and sheaths it.

"Spread out, look for any survivors."

The Sten does not approve. "That is hardly likely. Our time would be put to better use -"

"Just do it, damn it!" His Talia fishes in the pouch at her hip, pulls out the small wooden box that he knows all too well and scoops out a fingerful of the bitter paste. He does not bother to whine a protest. She does this after every battle with the darkspawn, telling him that it will keep him from getting sick. He does not understand the why of it, but he remembers 'sick'; when he was much younger, he had found a pile of fatty scraps in the kitchen middens and gorged himself. For three days after that, he had been unable to keep down food, and his stools had been like water. He does not want to be sick again, but beyond that, he does not want to disobey his Talia, so he licks the paste from her finger and swallows.

"Good boy," she murmurs, scratching his head. "You did good. Now help them search. See if anyone is still alive."

He whines softly as she turns away and moves toward Leliana, because his nose has already confirmed what the Sten has said: the only living scents in this place of death belong to their pack. But she has told him to search, and search he does, pausing only to drink from a puddle before moving swiftly through the remains of the town, seeking any hint of life beneath the scents of burn and rot and darkspawn...and finding none.

He returns to find Talia and Alistair comforting Leliana and joins them, nosing his way under his Talia's arm. He does not understand what they speak of, but Leliana is alive, their pack is once again whole, and this is a good thing. Brego knows it is good because, for the first time since he woke her that night at Highever, there is neither fear nor anger nor grief in his Talia's scent.


End file.
